Fuck it.
Just fuck it.
Why? Why did I have to have these fucked up dreams? I don't even know.
Fuck, of course I know. Why did he have to die? I wish I'd kept it, the last piece of Chris I had, the baby. Would it have looked like him? Acted like him? Caught that haemorrhage thing from him? But it would never be Chris, no, no one could ever be Chris again. No point in wondering what could've been, considering I got rid of it anyway. I miss him like fuck; it's not like losing an arm, a leg or whatever the saying is… It was losing Chris, I loved him, no, I still love him like fuck. If only he hadn't had that joint. Then again, it might not have been the joint. He could still be alive if he'd stayed in Hospital.
Why the fuck didn't he stay in Hospital!?
I know what he would say if I tried to tell him that now, I know what he would say. He would say "Fuck it" and grin, then kiss me and tell me everything was fine anyway and that as long as I was fine he was fine. But he wasn't fine, and he knew but he didn't tell me. He didn't fucking tell me! I hated Cassie. I hated her for running away and leaving him in his bed like that, blood all over his face, dead. His Dad is a prick for sure, but when the boys nicked Chris' coffin I wanted to scream and cry and beat on the coffin, to tell Chris to wake up and end all this shit, to end the game he was playing. I couldn't look at it. Shoved on the table. I told them to take it back, and after giving his Dad a minor stroke, did.
And the weirdest thing is, the thing that makes me cry, was that after Cassie came back, she couldn't say the last thing he said. She had to write it down. The last word that ever came from that boy's lips was my fucking name. It made me cry so much. From loss, from love, from mourning. What could've been.
But isn't and wasn't.
And you know what?
Fuck it.